


Very much love

by Charlotte_McGonagall



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aromantic Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Aromantic Sherlock Holmes, Asexual Sherlock, Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-27 00:45:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10798197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charlotte_McGonagall/pseuds/Charlotte_McGonagall
Summary: In which Sherlock deduces something about Mycroft's love life, Sherlock and John have a much needed conversation, and Mycroft begins to accept that caring is not necessarily a bad thing.





	Very much love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SakiJune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SakiJune/gifts), [Allons-y (sarabakanashimi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarabakanashimi/gifts).



> I've been plotting this since the end of season 4, but I am terribly disorganised and a serial procrastinator, so it took me more than three months to actually write it.  
> At first I intended it to be just a fun and light-hearted story of Sherlock making fun of Mycroft with his deduction, but I am apparently incapable of writing pure comedy, so I felt the need to add some more serious bits in the end.  
> I hope Sherlock's deductions don't seem too illogical, it was hard to reproduce his reasoning.  
> English is not my first language, so I apologise for any mistake. Please, don't hesitate to tell me about them, constructive criticism and feedback are appreciated.  
> A huge thanks to Juls and Saki for their support and the exchange of ideas in the last few months.

It was just another morning at 221b Baker Street — or Baker Street 2.0, as Anderson had nicknamed the flat after its rebuilt, a definition which had earned him an eyebrow rise from John and a dirty look from Sherlock.

John was making breakfast and Rosie sat peacefully in her highchair, babbling to herself, while Sherlock was looking out of the window, expectantly. He had been standing there watching the street below for several minutes now, and John was becoming impatient to find out why.  
"Are you waiting for someone?", John asked, perplexed. "It's a bit early for a client, especially on a Sunday".

Sherlock just smiled and raised his hand to silence John, eyes still fixed outside. He seemed to have found whatever he was searching for out there, because he checked the time, raised an eyebrow and his mouth twitched into a mischievous grin.

Then he finally turned to John. "Can you make scrambled eggs, please?", he asked.  
"You hate scrambled eggs," John replied, matter-of-factly.  
"I do," Sherlock agreed, "but they're Mycroft's favourites".  
"Mycroft?", he asked, a confused expression forming on his face. Since when were they having Mycroft Holmes over for breakfast? He had barely seen the man since the Sherringford incident.  
"My brother eats when he's upset. Bless him," said Sherlock, as if somehow that would explain Mycroft's presence in their flat on an early Sunday morning. He decided he'd find out, eventually, he always did, and preferred to focus on Sherlock's last sentence.  
"And why is he upset?", he asked.  
"He isn't," Sherlock replied. "Not yet. But he will be".  
John gave him his best ' _fine-don't-tell-me-then_ ' shrug and took more eggs from the fridge. Sherlock was up to something, that much was sure, it didn't take... well... Sherlock himself to see it.

And a few moments later, here was Mycroft, standing by the door and then walking in, wearing a smoking and with his faithful umbrella by his side. John didn't even bother to ask how Mycroft had acquired the keys to 221B Baker Street, but he suspected it wasn't remotely as simple as Sherlock just giving him a copy.

The gaze of the older Holmes was immediately on Sherlock, barely acknowledging John's presence, apparently.  
"Hello, Mycroft," said John, not so much out of politeness as it was out of desire to make his presence known.  
"Good morning, doctor Watson," was Mycroft's brief reply, then he turned his whole attention back on a grinning Sherlock.  
"Well then, brother mine?", he asked. "Why did you request my presence?". He took the phone out of his pocket as he spoke, in a deliberately theatrical way, and showed the screen.  
John walked closer to read the text it displayed:

_Come to Baker Street as soon as you can._  
_It's important._  
_I'll explain later._  
_\- SH_

It had been sent earlier that morning.  
Now both men were looking at Sherlock, in anticipation. Apparently, though, Sherlock was in no hurry to provide explanations. He just started chuckling and proceeded to step closer to Mycroft, inspecting him from head to toe, like he would a crime scene. As he got even closer to his brother and examined his jacket with his magnifying glass, his chuckling turned into a barely contained laugh.

Mycroft's posture became, if possible, even stiffer than usual, as his brother invaded his personal space.  
"What on Earth are you doing?", he asked, sternly. As Sherlock kept deliberately ignoring him, Mycroft turned to John. "Doctor Watson, what the hell is this nonsense about?".

"I swear," he replied, face contracted as he tried not to laugh at the scene in front of him, "I haven't got the faintest idea". By the end of the sentence, his efforts to remain serious were nullified, though, as Sherlock proceeded to sniff Mycroft and the older man made a small but quite dramatic leap in surprise and indignation.  
Of course all of them knew very well that Sherlock didn't need this kind of theatrics to make his deductions, he was just having an outrageous amount of fun at the expenses of his brother.

"Are you quite finished?", exclaimed an exasperated Mycroft as Sherlock stepped away from him. "Did you call me here to make a fool out of me or is there an actual reason?".  
It took Sherlock approximately thirty seconds to stop laughing and, when he did, he simply looked at Mycroft and said, "I have to be honest, I didn't think you and Lady Smallwood would be prone to... _fraternising_ outside of work".

At those words Mycroft went rigid and contracted his lips into a thin line. John was sure he was actually almost... blushing. Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, the Ice Man, was _blushing_!  
"You never really needed me, did you, brother mine?", asked Mycroft, coldly. "You just wanted to make fun of me".  
"Well, actually, my motivation was mostly brotherly concern," Sherlock retorted. "You barely leave your house lately, except for work, and when you didn't come home last night, I was a bit concerned and wanted to know where you'd been. Seeing you was enough to deduce you went on a date with Lady Smallwood, spent the night in her house and that your relationship is quite... close".

Watson was listening intently now. It took him a moment to connect the dots and recollect who Lady Smallwood was, but then, although he had never met her in person, he easily remembered Sherlock talking about her case and seeing her face on the papers. The implication that she could be having a relationship with Mycroft, though, — and the man was not denying! — was much harder to accept. He wasn't sure she was what he imagined as Mycroft's type. But then again, actually, it had never occurred to him Mycroft could have a type at all, let alone be someone's type, so he supposed she was as good — or bad — as anyone else.

Mycroft's words interrupted his thoughts. "Are you tracking me, little brother?".  
"Yes, I am," said Sherlock. "You have been affected greatly by recent events, but I knew you wouldn't like my direct intervention, so I had my associates keep an eye on you".  
"So, let me guess: you sent your little mercenary army of drug addicts and homeless people to watch my house and invade my privacy?", Mycroft replied, coldly, but without any real apparent resentment.  
"Hear who's talking," John commented. "When you're concerned about Sherlock, MI5 tends to get involved".  
The two brother looked at him, Sherlock with a pleased smile, Mycroft with a frown.

"Well then," Mycroft sighed, "now that we have established your motives, you can explain how you understood it. I know you are dying to tell it and Doctor Watson seems to be itching to know". He was using the same tone of resignation one might use with a small child asking for extra candies.  
"I actually am," John admitted with a chuckle.

Sherlock seemed to be waiting for nothing else. He loved explaining his deductions as much as he adored irritating and outsmarting his brother.  
"Well," said Sherlock, "wherever you were, I knew you'd come here as soon as I asked, so I monitored the arrival time, taking traffic into account. The most likely result was that you came from Kensington. Furthermore, the car that brought you here was not one of your usual institutional black cars. You were in a hurry, so you didn't want to call for one and wait for it to pick you up. No, you arrived in a private car, most likely your host's: specifically, a grey Rolls Royce with a driver. The expensive car, combined with your location in Kensington, tells me that your host is, unsurprisingly, quite rich".

John looked at Sherlock in concentration, following his thought process, like always. Mycroft's expression, on the other hand, was closer to condescending.

"Now, of course," Sherlock added, "being at someone else's house doesn't always imply a relationship; still, let's look at the rest of the evidence. Usually, the most common indicator that one has just started a relationship is a considerable improvement in the care put into one's appearance, but, since your level of personal grooming is already borderline OCD, we have to look at everything that is out of place".  
John snorted and Sherlock smiled.  
"See?", he continued, addressing John. "Look at his clothes: he's wearing a smoking on a Sunday morning! Besides, the suit's wrinkled, despite his effort to be presentable. It's clear that he's been wearing it since yesterday evening. And the deepest creases in his trousers and the back of his jacket tell me he's been sitting in the same position for a considerable amount of time, probably at a restaurant or theatre. Normally, he wouldn't spend the night out without a change of clothes and anything he might need, but here he is, wearing yesterday's suit and," he paused to sniff Mycroft again, "a female deodorant".  
Mycroft rolled his eyes.  
"Which," Sherlock continued, "leads to another deduction: his host was a single woman, not used to having guests or male company, at least not recently, and she's living alone at the moment, or they would have spent the night in a hotel".

"Well," said Mycroft, "that much was quite obvious, I daresay, but how did you make an assumption about her identity?".  
"Because," Sherlock replied, briefly scanning the room in search of a an object and finally grasping a pair of tweezers, which he then used to triumphantly pick a blond hair off Mycroft's right shoulder, "she left clues".  
Mycroft appeared utterly offended that such an obvious hint was sitting on his shoulder.

"There are a lot of reasons why a hair could get stuck on my jacket," he retorted.  
"There are indeed," agreed Sherlock, "but they all usually involve close proximity, if not contact, with another person; and you barely let your own parents touch you, so this woman must be pretty special".  
He proceeded to examine the hair with his magnifying glass and he seemed very pleased by what he saw.  
"As I thought," he commented. "The hair root is white, although barely visible, because it's been dyed very recently. Given the hair colour and choice of dye, probability suggests our mystery lady is most likely a white woman not younger than 50, if not older".  
Mycroft scoffed in irritation.

"She's also about as tall as John," added Sherlock, looking at John for a moment, as if for reference. "Maybe a few centimetres taller, but most likely because she was wearing heels".  
"How can you tell that?", asked John.  
"See here?", asked Sherlock, pointing at the right side of Mycroft's chest. "There is a pulled thread on the jacket".

Mycroft looked down at the tiny rip, visibly annoyed by the state of his jacket.  
"This was left by a pin on her jacket when she hugged you. Maybe it was the same moment when she left the hair as well, like this," he said, briefly pulling John closer so that the doctor's head would rest on his shoulder. John raised his eyebrows at being used as human mannequin, but didn't complain.  
"The position of the rip clearly tells us that she is approximately a bit taller than 1.70. Again, as I said, considering how elegant you are and the fact that she was wearing a pin on her lapel, she was probably wearing heels as well. So her actual height would be slightly below 1.70".  
John looked satisfied and Mycroft looked almost defeated.  
"In conclusion," added Sherlock, "you are dating a rich, blonde, older, single woman, who lives in Kensington, owns a grey Rolls Royce and is almost 1.70 metres tall. Considering you basically have no social life outside of work — now more than ever — she must be someone you work with. Lady Smallwood happens to fulfil all the criteria".

"Well, little brother," said Mycroft, who now looked resigned and even mildly amused, "it was all pretty easy, but I'm glad at least it was of amusement for the two of you".  
Sherlock was still grinning and John chuckled softly again.

"Now," Mycroft added, "I gave you what you wanted, so I suppose I should get going. As you can imagine, I'm desperate for a change of clothes".  
"No," retorted Sherlock, "you're staying for breakfast".  
"Am I?", replied Mycroft sceptically.  
"Yes, you are. John was about to make scrambled eggs. Consider it a repayment for the humiliation," said Sherlock.  
"Not humiliation, brother mine," Mycroft corrected him, "for I have nothing to be ashamed of: just a terrible waste of my time".  
"All the same, you're staying for breakfast," retorted Sherlock, always eager to have the last word.  
"Or what?", asked Mycroft defiantly.  
"Or I'll tell mummy you have a girlfriend," whispered Sherlock with a smirk.  
For the first time that day, John saw Mycroft actually panic.  
"You wouldn't dare," he hissed.  
"Try me".  
Mycroft, it appeared, wasn't willing to try him. He sighed and turned to John.  
"I suppose, doctor Watson, that the fact you allow your baby daughter in this room," he said, looking at the kitchen, where Rosie was now dipping her hands in the apple sauce she was supposed to be eating for breakfast, "indicates that its hygienic conditions have greatly improved since last time I checked".

***

Seeing the Holmes brothers in such a domestic setting as a Sunday breakfast, was quite odd — John thought — but they deserved it (yes, even Mycroft!), they deserved familiarity and normalcy, as much as that was possible for the two of them. Even them teasing each other was a good thing, after all they'd been through (and, them being Sherlock and Mycroft, teasing was never over, especially now that the latter's love life had become a possible topic).

John himself found the idea rather amusing. He had even googled Lady Smallwood as they were eating, out of sheer curiosity about the woman who had brought the British Government out on a date.

"Did you know Lady Smallwood used to be a gymnast?", he asked Sherlock, who sat opposite to him at the kitchen table, as he scrolled through google results.  
"Damn," the detective exclaimed, "I was ready to bet on ballet dancer". John gave him a questioning look.  
"Her physique and posture suggested a background in either gymnastics or ballet," Sherlock explained. "I assumed the latter, because gymnasts are usually shorter".

"Not an unreasonable deduction, little brother," commented Mycroft, as he purred himself a second cup of tea. "What you say is true, yet if you had paid more attention to the arms and shoulders...".  
"Well," Sherlock interrupted him, "unlike you, I only saw her fully dressed. You have an unfair advantage".  
John snorted into his mug with such strength he almost spilled tea on his eggs.  
"Touché," said Mycroft suavely, with his best mocking smile.

"So," Sherlock said, "romance. You are into that sort of thing now".  
Mycroft's mouth twitched. "We're just spending some time together, don't blow the thing out of proportion like always".  
"You spend time dating and sleeping together. I've been lead to believe that those behaviours pertain to the definition of romance," Sherlock replied. "Am I right, John?".  
"Uhm, yes," John replied, half embarrassed and half amused. "I suppose so...".  
"What point are you trying to prove, brother mine?", asked Mycroft, exasperated.  
"None at all, I'm just observing that in the end even you have admitted you need some form of companionship," Sherlock replied, stretching and leaning on the back of his chair.  
"I don't need anything, Sherlock," snapped Mycroft. "For the last time, I am not lonely".  
Sherlock smiled. "And yet you've found yourself a goldfish, in the end".  
Mycroft shot him an icy glare. "She's not a goldfish, Sherlock".  
"Oh." Sherlock gave his brother an intense look. "So you care. You actually _care_!".  
"Shut up," Mycroft scoffed, finishing his tea and standing to leave. He turned to John. "Thank you for breakfast, Doctor Watson. Now I have to go".  
"He's seeng her again for lunch," Sherlock explained, as he picked up Rosie from her highchair.  
Mycroft sighed and turned to speak to the toddler in his brother's arms. "Don't learn manners from you uncle Sherlock, miss Watson".

Mycroft froze by the door as Sherlock spoke one last time. "I'm not judging you, brother. Quite the opposite, in fact".  
Mycroft turned to look at Sherlock, an uncertain expression on his face.  
"I know I gave you all the reasons to doubt it," Sherlock added, "but not everything I say to you is meant as a mockery".

Mycroft blinked a couple of times, unsure of how to respond to that. Then he simply nodded and left.

"So," John said, as soon as he heard the main door close behind Mycroft, "your brother has a... a girlfriend?". He still didn't know if he was more surprised or amused.  
"Girlfriend, partner, lover, friend with benefits... it's hard to tell at the moment. Still, he let someone in his life, it's something. It was about time he realised loneliness is more dangerous than sentiment. I'm glad he did, he seems happy".

As Sherlock passed Rosie in his arms, John eyed his best friend with great interest. When he had first met Sherlock, he'd never have thought possible that he would one day speak like that. So many things had changed, and so had Sherlock.  
_And so have I — he thought._

"Changing your mind about romantic entanglement?", John asked.  
Sherlock smirked. "Not at all. I still feel no kind of inclination towards romance or forms of... physical intimacy. This doesn't mean I cannot understand they can be appealing to others, including — it seems — my brother. And this doesn't mean I cannot find fulfilment in other kinds of relationships". He made a wide gesture to the room around.  
"Like friendship?", John asked. "Like me?".  
Sherlock nodded. "Like you, especially you, and Rosie of course, but also like Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, even my silly brother, even The Woman. For a long time I believed there was only one kind of love, one I wasn't capable of giving. But now I think I understand that this can be love too".

John simply stared at Sherlock, transfixed by his friend's words. He wasn't used to Sherlock talking so openly about his feelings. He really had changed.  
Sherlock curled his lips into a melancholic smile.  
"Does this still make me 'incomplete' in your eyes?"

John felt suddenly ashamed, remembering his words. Sherlock had tried to tell him about his feelings for sex and romance many times, but he hadn't listened.

"No, not at all, Sherlock, you are not incomplete," he replied. "I'm not saying I understand, but it's your life, and your feelings, not mine. I'm sorry I said that. I never meant to disrespect you".  
Sherlock smiled, relieved. "I know. It's ok".  
"No, it's not".  
"It is what it is?".

John smiled, and Sherlock smiled back. And John realised too that, yes, that was very much love.

***

Mycroft arrived at the restaurant just on time and found Lady Smallwood waiting for him at the table. She had clearly just arrived herself and was refreshing her lipstick with the aid of a pocket mirror.

She smiled when she saw Mycroft approaching, discretely, but with an unmistakable hint of tenderness. He still failed to understand why this woman had wanted him, of all men, what could bring her to smile at him like that. He was cynical, unpleasant, unsociable, and not even good-looking enough to compensate for is lack of agreeableness; in a word, he was unlikable in every aspect that could attract a partner. And yet this charming woman was giving him that smile and he wondered what he had done to deserve it.

He joined her and managed a polite smile back.  
"I apologise again for leaving in a hurry this morning," he said.  
"No need to apologise," she replied, "it was a family matter. Anyway, why did your brother need you, if it's not too personal to ask?".  
Mycroft sighed. "He literally just wanted to see me, to amuse himself, mostly".  
She raised an eyebrow.  
"He knows about us," he added.  
"Oh," she replied, with no reaction other than mild amusement, "I see".  
"You don't seem surprised," he observed.  
She opened her menu. "I'm not," she replied. "In fact, it's not hard to imagine he would deduce it. What gave me away? My car or your clothes?".  
"Both," he replied.

Of course, he should have imagined her reaction, or lack of it. She had worked with him for years, and, before that, she had been one of uncle Rudy's favourite agents, she was used to the deductive skills of their family. In fact, he appreciated how unapologetically unimpressed she was by their abilities. His brother might like being surrounded by people who stroked his ego by looking impressed, but Mycroft didn't need that. If he had wanted a creature of inferior intellect to worship him, he would have adopted a dog. No, he definitely preferred Lady Smallwood's refreshing honesty ( _Liz_ , for heaven's sake. He needed to get used to calling her Liz, since it was her wish, despite his dislike for nicknames).

"Besides," he added, "my little brother seems to have unleashed his network of junkies and homeless people to keep an eye on me".  
She chuckled at that. "Well," she commented, "think of all the money and public resources we would have saved over the years if we had been as well connected as he is".  
Mycroft couldn't help but laugh at that, a smile lingering on his lips even afterwards.  
"You should smile more often, you know?", she said. "You look nice".  
She had that look again, the look of fondness he never got from anyone else, the one he never thought he wanted to get.  
"Oh, I don't know," he replied, sarcastically, as he gave a look at his menu. "I wouldn't want to ruin my reputation".

The next few minutes were spent discussing food and debating what to eat, then, as they waited for their orders, the conversation shifted mostly on small talk.  
It was only later, halfway thorough their meal, that she decided to ask him a question she'd been pondering since he had arrived.

"Does it bother you," she began, "that your brother knows about us?".  
"Well," he sighed, "he's Sherlock. As much as I love him, we're talking about a grown man who monitors my weight for the sole purpose of teasing me, so I'm not exactly fond of him knowing details about my personal life".

She nodded, sympathetically. "So it's just Sherlock? It doesn't bother you that others might put two and two together? We're not exactly being secretive about... this".  
"Are you implying I am ashamed of our... relationship?", he asked.  
She shook her head briefly. "I don't know. That's why I'm asking. I'm not judging you if you want to keep it a secret, but, if we keep dating, someone we know is bound to see us together sooner or later. People will speculate. You need to be prepared for that. If you are not, then we need to be more careful".  
Mycroft hesitated. "And how do you feel about this?", he asked. "What do you want to do?".  
"Honestly," she replied, "I'm not sure I am willing to hide like we're doing something wrong. It would be like admitting I am ashamed".

He nodded. "I agree. I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression earlier." He paused for a moment searching for the right words. "I... I'm not good at this. I'm not used to being in these situations, but I am most certainly not ashamed of us, whatever we are right now. I'm not saying we should hold hands in Whitehall-".  
She chuckled at that and made a disgusted face.  
"-but I can't see why we can't continue like this. If people want to speak ill of us, I'd like to see them try. It's the 21st Century and we're two unattached adults, who are doing nothing wrong".  
He gathered the courage and touched her hand over the table. "In fact," he added, "this feels completely right to me".

She squeezed his hand and smiled, eyes twinkling. He felt so exposed, under her glare, but somehow it didn't bother him. Once, he would have feared this kind of emotional intimacy, this kind of power she had over him — the power to charm him, the power to stir a sense of affection in his heart — but now he didn't seem to mind. It was probably unwise, but Sherlock was right, he _did_ care, after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys liked it. Either way, feedback is appreciated.  
> Just some final notes:  
> \- I included the conversation about Sherlock being (in my headcanon) aro/ace, because I felt there needed to be some kind of resolution to John and Sherlock's conversation in 4x02 (the "romance would make you complete as a human being" one). I know many saw it as a Johnlock foreshadowing, but John's words were not very respectful of Sherlock's feelings, in my opinion, so I needed them to clarify the situation. If you are not ace or aro it might sound like nothing to you, but as an ace (and probably somewhere in the aro spectrum too) I have experienced how romance/sex is continuously advertised as something inevitable, almost compulsory to achieve happiness or the mere state of proper human being. So I wanted to talk about how our value as a person and our fulfilment is not measured on our romantic or sex life. There are multiple ways to achieve happiness and have satisfying social relationships, and none is better than the other, like the Holmes brother show in this story (I hope).  
> \- I decided to nickname Lady Smallwood "Liz" to avoid choosing between Elizabeth and Alicia, since, all things considered, it could be short for both names.  
> \- About the brief uncle Rudy mention: I believe (as a huge part of the fandom, I think) that he worked for the secret services like Mycroft. And we know that Lady Smallwood worked (works? It's not completely clear what position she has in the government right now) for MI6, so it only made sense that they crossed paths. In my headcanon Rudy was a sort of a mentor to her (and I am actually writing a fanfiction about Lady Smallwood in which this will be explained in greater detail).
> 
> Thanks to you all for reading!


End file.
